


Hunter and prey

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Frottage, Hunter John, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Vampire Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3430583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have been working together for over two years. But both have secrets, and they're about to be discovered</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The truth uncovered

_Sherlock Holmes doesn’t sleep often, but when he does, he sleeps like the dead._ John smiled at his own internal joke as he stood over the sleeping man, the sharpened stake clutched over his head in his stocky hand.

He looked down at the detective. A bomb could go off in the room at this point and John knew Sherlock wouldn’t stir. Sherlock tried to explain it away as ‘going to his mind-palace’ but John knew better….. John knew the truth.

Two years…..two years of working beside Sherlock, living beside Sherlock, running beside Sherlock. It all came down to this. John Watson, hunter…standing over the sleeping body of Sherlock Holmes, Vampire.

 _I can’t do it_. If John were completely honest with himself, he’d known that even as he retrieved the stake from the bottom of his army locker. Just the thought of Sherlock’s eyes, those uniquely opalescent eyes opening in shock and betrayal as the stake was driven in only to dim and close as the light flickered out. Just the  thought had been enough to send him retching to the toilet bowl.

 _Some hunter I turned out to be._ John lowered his arm, and tried to slow his breathing. He was in too deep, and he knew it. _Don’t get to know the prey_ – That’s what they taught you. _They’re seductive creatures, both in word and deed_ – Yes, seductive and brilliant. John had been woefully unprepared for the sheer genius of the man. The quicksilver thinking, the insight into the humans around him; It was intoxicating to walk in Sherlock Holmes’ world. John was as much addicted to Sherlock Holmes as the vampire was to the blood. They both needed it to survive.

 _But it’s deeper than that._ John hadn’t been prepared for Sherlock to be a good man. He’d been lulled into expecting the fairy-tale lurking horror, forever poised to commit evil acts of brutality on the weak and innocent. Instead, Sherlock used his heightened senses to bring evil to justice. Certainly John wasn’t naïve enough to think Sherlock did it for anything other than the rush of the chase…but still….justice was served by his actions.

“Fuck.” John whispered and quietly left the room, ascending the stairs to his own. Slipping inside he threw the stake on the bed and slid down the wall to sit on the cold floorboards in the dark of his room, alone with his thoughts and his failure.

@@@

“Keep up John!” The shout came as Sherlock was almost a block ahead and ducked around the corner as John’s legs pounded to try and keep pace.

Instead of replying and wasting valuable oxygen, John simply put his head down and pushed harder. The cards really were all in Sherlock’s hands at times like this. Longer legs, more athletic build and…. _Oh, of course…..not human._

As John reached the corner he scrabbled at the bricks in a practiced attempt to slow himself and pivot around the corner into the alley.

 _Rubbish skips, garbage, boxes, scrap metal….where’s Sherlock?_ John scanned the area and saw a glimpse of their quarry exiting the far end of the tight alley, but no sign of Sherlock.

Finally, a groan at the base of a chain-wire fence. What John had taken for a pile of rags was, on closer inspection, Sherlock’s thick Belstaff coat presumably with the detective huddled inside. John knelt quickly.

“I caught him…..I caught him, John…Didn’t see the knife though.”

There are certain words that set John’s hackles on edge, ones that can spell injury and death. Gun….drug…explosions…knives. Rolling Sherlock gently, the severity was clear to see. A long, deep gash ran through the coat, Sherlock’s shirt and through the pale skin of his torso. Within the rapidly spreading blood, John caught a glimpse of ribs and worse.

“Ambulance, John…go get an ambulance.” Sherlock muttered, trying to push him away, “Go to the end of the alley and call.”

John smiled grimly. _So, one final attempt to hide, Sherlock? You’re out of luck, my friend_. “An ambulance can’t help you…you know that.” John stood and had a quiet moment of smugness as Sherlock’s eyes followed him in confusion.

“John…..?” Sherlock tried to get an elbow under him to prop himself up, “You’re not leaving me here, surely.”

“Of course not.” John pulled his jumper off and was unbuttoning his sleeve cuff, “I’m giving you what you need.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and then narrowed as he held a pale hand against the horrendous gash in his chest, “You know!”

“I’ve always known.” John rolled his sleeve up, “I’m not an idiot.” John knelt at his friend’s side, “Now drink, and we can talk.”


	2. I feel a bit funny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John offers, Sherlock takes....until John decides he's had enough

John suspected things might be going a bit far when he found his thoughts drifting. _Not good._ _Sitting on a pile of boxes, a vampire feeding on you and you’re reminiscing on your last trip to Wales….Not good._

He opened his mouth wide, trying to pop his ears and shook his head to try and clear the pin-pricks of light that were fast becoming a snowstorm.

“Sherlock…” His voice came out cracked and dry. _Yeah….not good._

Sherlock meanwhile, had his mouth buried against John’s forearm and with a touch of hysteria, John found the sound of him snuffling and gulping against the skin reminded him of a puppy he owned when he was five, _Drifting again…..pull it together Watson._

He cleared his throat and tried again, “Sherlock….mate.” He tugged ineffectually at his arm, worried about the potential damage a pair of fangs could cause if ripped from his skin.

Sherlock’s fingers tightened on his arm, the muffled whuffing and slurp continued, and John swayed as another round of vertigo assailed him.

_Gentle versus rough…Gentle didn’t work…rough it is._ “Sherlock!” John brought up the arm that wasn’t encumbered with a set of vampire teeth and clocked Sherlock on the side of the head with a balled fist.

The mouth pulled away. “Ow…What the hell, John?” Sherlock looked for all the world like a five year old who’d been into the strawberry jam donuts. Red and sticky from the top lip down, John was witness for the first time, to the sight of twin fangs nestled in Sherlock’s mouth.

John clasped a hand over the punctures in his arm. Now that Sherlock’s mouth and its associated anaesthetic saliva were gone, a deep throbbing pain was beginning to radiate from the holes and up his arm. “Sorry…bit fuzzy.”

“Give it to me.” Sherlock gestured to his arm petulantly, “I’ll seal it.”

Laying the injured forearm back in Sherlock’s hands, Sherlock leaned down and dragged his tongue over the gash. The relief was immediate as tingling warmth spread from the site and John could feel the tug of skin drawing together and knitting. Sherlock laved the skin one last time and mopped up the remaining blood, finishing by wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before looking at John.

“You look a bit pale, you ok?” Sherlock laid the back of his hand on John’s forehead.

John pursed his lips grimly as the sparkles of light stubbornly refused to disappear, “You know…..I’m not sure I am.”

And with that, John’s eyes rolled back and he pitched head first into Sherlock’s lap.

@@@

_Cinnamon…Cinnamon and tree sap….sandlewood….laundry softener…._

John rolled over with a groan. His first thought was that he was suffering from a particularly bad hangover but the absence of the usual odours of sweat, and booze and cigarettes disabused him of that notion. Nevertheless, the furry tongue and splitting headache spelled dehydration and that was rapidly followed by recollections of the previous night and Sherlock’s feeding.

_Sherlock….cinnamon….rosin…bed_

The pieces clicked into place as he cracked his eyes open expecting, and confirming, that he was indeed in Sherlock’s room and wrapped in the sheets of Sherlock’s bed.

The man himself was comfortably ensconced in an easy chair he kept in the corner of the room, hands steepled under his chin, watching John with an openly appraising stare.

“There’s water on the side table. You’re probably dehydrated.” Sherlock gestured with one hand before resuming his prayerful pose.

“Thanks.” John reached for the glass, refilling it twice before levering himself up to sit against the headboard.

“You knew.” Not a question….a statement.

“Yep.” John sipped at a third glass.

“All this time?”

“All this time.” John confirmed.

“I missed it.” Sherlock stated.

“You did.” John smiled smugly around the glass.

“I don’t miss things like that.”

John put the glass down and leaned forward, serious for a moment, “Yeah, you do…All the time. I’m good at my job, Sherlock. I have to be.”

“You’re a hunter.” Again….it wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” John held Sherlock’s gaze.

“My hunter.”

“Yes.”

“And yet….I’m not dead.”

“No…..” John picked up the glass again and looked at it thoughtfully, “You’re not.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked pensively.

John sighed and looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes again, “You know why.”


	3. Confrontations and revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for some home truths and the slow process of 'educating' John begins.

“Why am I not dead, John?”

“Well, you’re not exactly a text-book example of the modern vampire, are you Sherlock?” John levered himself up on to his elbows, and then shifted to sit leaning against the headboard, steadying himself as the room spun.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and his voice was bitter, “And what exactly is a modern vampire supposed to be, hunter?”

John winced, “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not, it’s what you are. Your sole purpose in life is to identify, hunt, and kill my kind. What would you like me to call you John? Killer…..lier…” Sherlock lowered his hands and added carefully, “….threat.”

“Now wait a minute!” John didn’t like the way this conversation was heading. It seemed that any credit John may have earned for saving Sherlock’s life had been forgotten.

“No, you wait John. You people, you…hunters” He virtually spat the words, “think you’re so virtuous, so righteous. Has it crossed your mind for one moment…just one…that you’re no better than those you hunt?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Would it surprise you to know that in the last five decades, humans killed by vampires’ feeding is outnumbered by hunters that have killed my kind. And not just by a few, by a factor of twenty!, Would it surprise you to know….hunter…that your entire order was founded by a madman with an grudge against a vampire who was begged…BEGGED by his dying wife to turn her? Would it shock you….JOHN,” Sherlock was on his feet now, magnificent in his anger, “…to know I’d willingly DIE before even feeding on an innocent, and that it’s a sentiment that’s shared by every vampire I know.”

Sherlock stopped, uncurled his clenched fingers before continuing more calmly, “My people have grown up, John. It’s the hunters that remain in the dark ages.”

Silence fell in Sherlock’s bedroom, The sound of John’s rapid breathing the only reprieve. Now that the truth was out, Sherlock had ceased the fraudulent rise and fall of his chest and there was a new layer to his preternatural stillness.

Eyes wide, John fought against the visceral desire to flee. His hunter training penetrated far enough to recognise that if an attack were to come, he’d likely be dead before his feet hit the floor. Iin any case and a deeper, more sentimental part of him hoped that Sherlock cared enough to let him live even if he tried.

Sherlock's nostrils flared, picking up the scent of panic and twitched a corner of his mouth up, then retreated to his armchair again, sitting gently on the edge, “There’s no need for that, John. I’m not going to kill you, any more than you’ll kill me.”

“I know that.” John said defensively.

“No you don’t. You’re trying to convince yourself, but all the same your hind-brain is screaming to run, just like mine’s screaming to chase. But you’re resisting it, as am I.”

“Now who’s the threat?” John reached for the water as his voice rasped on the final word.

“Perhaps we could agree to a draw,” Sherlock offered tiredly, “or at least a stalemate.” Sherlock looked at the man in his bed, “You’re too weak to run, and I’ve had my fill of your blood tonight.”

The tip of Sherlock’s tongue darted out to brush at his lips. The sight should have horrified John, with the recent memory of his blood running from Sherlock’s mouth. Instead, the delicate touch of pink to his bottom lip was unnerving; almost erotic and he felt his breathing skip as his heart gave an erratic lurch in his chest as a wave of carnal longing swept through him.

Sherlock flushed, noting John’s sudden discomfort, “Yes, That will happen for a while. Sorry.”

John shook his head, “That’s just fucked up, Sherlock. How can I want to bolt from the room and screw you at the same time? It doesn’t make sense.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Who knows. I’ve heard cuttlefish can hypnotise their prey so it doesn’t escape.”

“Not really the same,” John muttered, “unless the fish also wants to root the cuttlefish.”

Sherlock barked a short laugh and some of the tension left the room, “No. No, I daresay that doesn’t cross the fish’s mind.”

“Or the cuttlefish.” John ventured with a small smile.

Sherlock answered with an easier nod and a somewhat wicked smile, “Oh, I’ve heard cuttlefish can be quite adventurous, given the right circumstances. Truce?”

“Truce.” John agreed, “So, what now?”

Sherlock’s brow creased and he leaned forward in the chair, “I’d expect we go on much the same as before. We chase criminals, catch bad guys, you call me brilliant and I forget to tell you how important you are to me. What needs to change?”

John placed the empty glass back on the side table, “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “there’s the awkward hunter-vampre-sworn enemies thing. I’d have thought that might….I dunno….change things.”

Sherlock sighed and for the first time, John recognised it for the conscious behaviour that it must be. Without the need to breathe, the huff of frustration required a determined act. John smiled ruefully at the realisation.

“John, we’ve ALWAYS been who we are, Hunter…..Vampire…John…Sherlock….None of that has changed. All that’s changed is that we’ve admitted it to each other. It’s one less secret for us to conceal from each other.”

“But……..” John began.

“No buts……..I won’t let this ruin us, John. I refuse.” Sherlock’s face had taken on a familiar immovable aspect. Tight lips, furrowed brow and steely eyes. John knew better than to attempt to change his mind and at heart, he didn’t want to.

He nodded slowly and threw back the sheet to slip out of the bed.

“Now where are you going?” Sherlock was on his feet before John had even swung his legs to the side.

“Up to my bed. You’ll want a couple of hours rest to process my blood, I’d have thought?” John ventured, pushing sheets to the side.

A stern shake of the head aborted John’s movements, “Stay where you are. You won’t bother me and…” Sherlock smiled again, “..I’ve fed…so I won’t bother you.”

John stilled for a moment and considered. It was true that a flu-like ache pulled at his muscles. A deep bone-weariness no doubt a result of the blood-loss and all he wanted to do was snuggle back down and sleep. But……sleep in Sherlock’s bed….next to him….It was madness of a scale unheard of in hunter histories.

Sherlock approached and without permission lay a flat palm on John’s chest, gently easing him back down onto the fluffy pillow, “John….” His deep voice seemed to unravel every reservations, “Lay back….” The pillows were soft, the sheets warm. One night wouldn’t hurt…..surely, “Rest…..” Sherlock cooed, “You saved my life tonight…..let me tend to you now.”

As his eyelids slipped closed, the velvet voice wrapped itself around his soul, “There now, John…..rest…where you belong.”


	4. A matter of trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's seduction of the hunter, John Watson, continues.

There was something crawling on John’s neck. With the reflexive brush of a man half asleep, John’s hand rose to swipe at the offending bug only to end up tangled in curly hair. The events of the previous night came rushing back and with them, the reality that Sherlock was snuffling at his neck, nose pressed against his skin.

Instantly awake, John froze with terror and shuddered at the throaty groan from the man at his side.

“John… “ came the muffled voice, “We really have to do something about this panic reaction. The fear pheromones leach into your sweat.”

“Putting you off your food?” John’s voice came out a pathetic squeak.

“Quite to opposite, actually.” Sherlock returned to his worship of the skin where John’s neck met shoulder and John shivered when he felt a moist tongue touch and then retreat, “It makes you rather more difficult to resist.”

John whimpered and cleared his throat to try and respond in a tone more close to normal, “And you saying things like that isn’t helping the situation.”

Sherlock chuckled and John felt the sharp edge of fangs where they grazed the skin as Sherlock smiled before he drew away, “Sorry… yes, you’re right. I apologise.”

John took the opportunity to put some space between them and rubbed his neck, surreptitiously checking for blood on his fingers.

“You needn’t concern yourself; I wouldn’t feed without your permission.” The smile dropped away as he frowned, “I thought I’d made that clear last night?”

It was John’s turn to apologise, “Sorry, old habits I suppose. You’re looking better.” John added noting Sherlock’s colour had lost the unpleasant grey pallor of the alleyway.

“So are you; not so… drained.” The grin was back. Exposure of their secrets seemed to have softened the reserved detective. He seemed quicker to smile, to touch, to engage. John found that he quite liked this new Sherlock, in spite of his training screaming the opposite should be true.

In fact, this new, and frankly disturbing instinct to draw closer to the man (and honestly, John couldn’t seem to shake the habit of thinking him a man) was becoming something of an issue.

Sherlock lay buried under rumpled sheets, the stark whiteness only serving to provide additional contrast to the inky curls and piercing eyes. John wanted nothing more than to collapse back toward him and bare his throat to Sherlock’s pillowy lips. The logical part of his brain firmly advised that this was _not_ a good idea.

And yet, all it took was to Sherlock to beckon him with a tilt of his head and that’s exactly what John was doing. Inexplicably, he found himself curled against Sherlock’s lean form, slotting bony elbows and knees into softer divots and curves in a way that seemed not only natural, but designed by a higher power.

“Better…” Sherlock’s rumbled baritone seemed to fold itself around John in the same way as his arms.

John couldn’t find it in his heart to disagree. Sherlock’s naturally cooler skin temperature came as a soothing balm to the heated flush of his skin. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“I beg to disagree.” Sherlock’s fingertips traced the nodules of John’s spine through his T-shirt.

“You’re a predator… dangerous.”

“If you say so.”

“You’re the enemy…” John mumbled, increasingly unconvinced.

“Not to you. Never to you.” He said, soothingly.

“It’s not what I’ve been taught.” There was something in John’s voice, a desperate note of hope.

“Some lessons can’t be learned in class.” Sherlock moved to nuzzle at John’s neck again and John helplessly lifted his chin encouraging the touch.

“I shouldn’t want this…” John found his hands inexplicably tugging at Sherlock’s sleep-shirt as his hips stuttered restlessly against Sherlock’s.

“And yet… you do,” came the silken reply as Sherlock effortlessly divested John of his own T-shirt.

“Yeah… “ John gasped as the merest glance of teeth grazed his neck, “God help me, I do.”

Finally having given himself permission to succumb, John’s fingers breached the boundary separating Sherlock’s pyjamas from his skin and ran his nails up Sherlock’s lean back, delighting at the way Sherlock arched against him in response.

“John… “ Sherlock whispered warningly.

John hissed as the teeth pressed a little harder, “Don’t like it when I play rough?” he asked playfully, voice rough with desire.

Sherlock chuckled back darkly, “I can see we’re going to have to talk about vampire instincts. When hurt, we tend to bite.”

“Like a dog?” John asked, teasingly as his hands raked back down in long trails.

Sherlock arched again and lifted his mouth away from John’s skin, “Try to muzzle me and there’ll be repercussions.”

Without apology, John reached up a hand to the nape of Sherlock’s neck and wordlessly pulled him back down only to have Sherlock redirect the path of his lips to John’s chest, flicking out to lick a nipple as his mouth touched down.

John tensed at the touch, “God, you’re going to be the death of me.”

Sherlock glanced up to John’s face, eyes glittering, “More?”

With trembling fingers, John gently pushed Sherlock’s hair away from his face and lay back on the bed, surrendering utterly to whatever Sherlock planned, “More… please.”

With a growl of delight, Sherlock shifted to loom over John and bent toward his goal, lapping first at one pebbled nipple before shifting to the other and back again, his cool saliva chilling further in the bedroom air. John shivered and whimpered at his ministrations, as much from the sensation as the cold air.

“Jesus, Sherlock… “ John managed brokenly as pinpricks of light flashed behind his eyelids, “This isn’t normal.”

Sherlock paused, his voice vibrating against the wet skin, “Did you expect it to be?”

“I didn’t _expect_ to be here at all. Was this… “ John gasped as Sherlock ran his fangs over the now taut bud in his mouth, “… was this your plan for me all along?”

“No plan, John. Hopes… “ Sherlock’s hands ran in restless waves up and down John’s side, never venturing beyond the edge of his pyjama pants, “ …idle hopes, and maybe dreams.”

John slipped his fingers amongst Sherlock’s curls, burying them so that the golden skin disappeared under dark waves, “… You’ve always said… “ John gasped a ragged breath, hips thrusting up uselessly, seeking friction that wasn’t there, “… I thought…”

“Dangerous… “ Sherlock mumbled, his mouth full of John, “… always a risk.”

John tugged at Sherlock’s hair, just to see what would happen and was rewarded with a moan.

“You said dangerous…” John trailed off.

Sherlock tilted his head, looking up from John’s chest with a grin and responded voice deep and rough with arousal, “…and here you are.”

“Arse.” John smiled down fondly.

“Idiot.” Sherlock replied, turning back to his domination of John Watson’s body with enthusiasm.

John doubted he’d been this hard in his entire life. He could feel his cock twitching and bobbing, uselessly crying out for attention that Sherlock seemed determined not to give. Instead, the vampire was systematically taking him apart piece by piece.

Having apparently sated himself with John’s nipples, Sherlock’s exploration had sought and found every erogenous zone on John’s upper body. Spots John hadn’t even been aware of had been touched and teased to the point where the slighted brush of fingertips set off full-body shudders through the shorter man. Whenever that happened, Sherlock would smile, a hint of pointed teeth breaching the curve of his lips, and move on to the next undiscovered location.

Meanwhile, John’s poor neglected cock lay thick in his pants, barely constrained by its fabric prison. Whenever, in desperation, he’d tried to reach and take himself in hand Sherlock had gently and silently taken hold of his arms and shifted them away. He felt like a clock-spring, dangerously close to being over-wound.

“Sherlock… “ John’s voice was thin and cracked with desperation, “Let me touch something, me… you… anything; for God’s sake, _please!_ ”

The response was nothing more than an amused chuckle and Sherlock crawled back up John’s body, parting his lips to drag his sharp canines up John’s sternum as he made the journey. John keened and bucked up his hips at the confusing mix of threat and indescribable pleasure.

“Nearly there, John… Patience, you’re nearly there.” Sherlock’s voice had taken on a viscous, syrupy quality; as if he were drowning in John’s arousal.

John panted as Sherlock returned to his original position, nose and mouth buried in the crock of his shoulder, mouthing at his neck. “What are you doing to me, Sherlock? _HOW_ are you doing it?”

“I know you, John. I know what you need… “ Sherlock inhaled deeply, “I can _smell it_.”

John whimpered, his eyesight beginning to darken at the edges as the thundering blood in his ears seemed to rob him of oxygen.

“Nearly there… “ Sherlock mumbled, his own erection hard and unforgiving at John’s hip.

“For Christ sake, bite me, _please_ Sherlock, I need you to.” John begged brokenly.

“Yes… “ Sherlock breathed the word, soft and blissful, “Yes.” And bit down gently, just firmly enough to puncture.

John felt the surface of his skin break, with tiny a pop of release. There was the slightest sharp point of pain and then a wave of shivering tingles spreading out from the spot. With a shout, John arched and came, untouched within his pyjamas the waves from his neck cascaded, overwhelming him and he shuddered as Sherlock held and rocked hard against him, moaning through his own orgasm against John’s hip.

As John felt the first rush dissipating, Sherlock shifted his fangs against his neck, barely moving them and John arched again, helpless as the shudders gripped him again and he cried out in ecstasy as his still hard cock tried vainly to respond a second time.

Sherlock carefully withdrew his fangs, holding John more firmly as another wave of bliss threatened to overtake him. “It’s OK, John. I’ve got you. It’s alright.”

At Sherlock’s words, John realised that he was sobbing silently, tears running down his cheeks as he desperately tried to pull air into his lungs. Sherlock was looking down in concern, brushing the tears away with his thumb.

“Jesus, Sherlock, what the fuck was that?” John’s voice sounded wrecked to his own ears, gravelly and raw.

Sherlock looked contrite, “Not good?”

John lay on his back, his chest heaving as his heartbeat calmed, “Very good… very VERY good. But… shit… “ John shook his head, “What WAS that?”

“That was how it _can_ be. Why vampires _prefer_ willing partners.” Sherlock was peppering John’s shoulder with gentle kisses, seemingly lost to post-coital glow.

“But…” John touched a hand to his neck, “I didn’t feel you feed. You bit me, but didn't feed.”

Sherlock turned his head to rest his cheek on John’s chest, clearly listening to his heart beat, “That wasn’t what this was about.”

John stroked fingers through Sherlock’s sweaty hair, “Then what was it about?”

Tucking his arm around John and settling more heavily, Sherlock rumbled, “This was about trust.”


	5. A question of control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is a quandry, a mystery and a connumdrum.  
> He is also... fascinating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very much a 'thank you' to Esbee for her comment reminding me to ensure the power dynamic between these two remains in balance.
> 
> John is, and never has been, entirely submissive. It just doesn't work that way between them.

John sat reading the morning paper, a cup of tea absently cradled in his other hand. Carefully designed to make him appear the picture of unthreatening, he’d today chosen his favourite oatmeal jumper and a pair of indulgent blue and green stripy socks.

Opposite, Sherlock sat, hands templed beneath his chin quietly regarding the conundrum that was his flatmate.

Honestly, Sherlock has expected some sort of reaction. His money would have been on a sexuality crisis, although with the knowledge of John’s true calling as hunter, some sort of meltdown should have been triggered by that too.

Instead, there he sat, tea in hand, socks on feet seemingly engrossed in the tiny tales of the _normal_ people as described by yet more _normal_ people who laughingly described themselves as journalists. It was all… most… vexing.

Feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him (as perhaps he always had), John dropped the top edge of his paper to regard him silently.

“Problem?” asked the shorter man.

“No… certainly not,” Sherlock paused before adding, “just wondering if you’d had any further… revelations, regarding last night.”

John tipped the paper back up, his reply coming hidden behind the oversized sheets, “Nope, not really.”

 _Vexing_ , thought Sherlock.

“I need to pop out for a few hours today,” John’s voice was steady, calm and matter-of-fact.

 _Yes, I expect he does_ , thought Sherlock, _He’ll need to report in on the change in status._

“I’d rather you stay here,” Sherlock replied carefully.

The paper didn’t move, eyes remained hidden, “Yes, I’m sure you would. However, I have things I need to… do.”

Sherlock rose from his chair silently and placed a single finger on the top edge of John’s newspaper and pressed downward, creating a neat ‘V’ and exposing John’s unsurprised eyes. He dropped his voice and tried again, “John,” Sherlock held his gaze, exerting just the smallest amount of persuasive force, “I really think you’d be more comfortable staying home.”

With a fluidity and speed belying his fluffy jumper image, John was out of the chair and driving Sherlock backward into his own before Sherlock even considered what response would be appropriate. He found himself pressed back, John’s right hand tight around his throat.

“No! We don’t do that, Sherlock. We don’t EVER do that again.” John stared down unflinching, his deeper blue eyes hard and flinty against Sherlock’s paler kaleidoscope.

Sherlock blinked once and rearranged his features to something in what he hoped was a close approximation of distain, rather than the astonishment singing through his veins, “The threat of your hand might be more effective if I _breathed_ , John.”

The grip didn’t lighten, however he lifted his left hand holding the self-injector, showing it to Sherlock, “Then perhaps the silver nitrate was the _actual_ threat? The one I had held at your waist while you were distracted.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, surprised _yet again_ by the untapped mystery he’d been living with for so long, “Amazing…” he murmured.

John almost relented, settling for a tight smile, “That’s my line I believe. Now… have I convinced you, _AGAIN_ , that I know what I’m doing and… more importantly, that I know what _YOU’RE_ doing.”

“All this time…” Sherlock whispered on a breath, awestruck.

“What?”

“You’ve been here _all this time_. Right in front of me, sparkling and vibrant and… _amazing_.” Sherlock shook his head in wonder, “How did I miss this? How did I miss… you?”

John relaxed his grip and placed the injector on the floor next to the chair, “Because on the first night we met, you asked me if I was any good.”

Sherlock smiled, “You said… _very_.”

John remained crouched, looming over Sherlock’s prostrate form in the chair, “And I am. So, if this is going to work, we’re going to need some rules.”

“Yes, I suppose we are.” Sherlock eased his hands, which had been gripping the arms of his chair, around John’s waist, “dictate your terms, hunter.”

John frowned and sighed, “Alright. Rule one… Never call me hunter again, I loathe it. It isn’t who I am, Sherlock.”

“It is,” Sherlock countered, gesturing at their current positions.

John huffed a frustrated breath, “But it’s not what I _want_ to be. Not for us, not for you. You said it last night, you want us to stay _Sherlock and John_. I want that too.”

Sherlock’s entire demeanour changed in an instant, softening and relaxing under John’s hands, “Accepted. Next?”  
John settled more comfortably, now lounging against Sherlock, his hand shifted from Sherlock’s throat to nestle in his hair, “No more mind tricks. I mean it, Sherlock. You said last night was about trust.”

“… and pleasure, I should have mentioned that. It was for me, in any case.” Sherlock leaned his head against John’s fingers where they carded through his curls.

John paused, caught again by Sherlock’s surprisingly demonstrative response, “For me too, but I’m serious. I was fully aware that you influenced me to stay in your bed, and you tried it _again_ for… the rest. Do it again, even once, and we’re done, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned, “Would you have stayed… If I hadn’t.”

“I _did_ stay.” John tightened his fingers where they clasped Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock stilled momentarily as he worked through the three simple words, “You’re immune!” he murmured in delighted wonder.

John smiled fondly, “I’m immune…” he ducked his head down and placed a very firm kiss on Sherlock’s pated lips, “… you idiot.”

Sherlock pulled back with a thoughtful expression, “Then why tell me to stop?”

“Because,” John snuggled closer and placed another gentler kiss on Sherlock’s bemused lips, “it’s about trust.”

Sherlock sighed against John’s mouth, feeling his fangs beginning to descend as warmth built slowly under the onslaught of John’s kisses, “anything else?”

“Mmmmm,” John dragged his knees up so he was straddling Sherlock lap, “I’ll think of some others as we go along, I’m sure.”

“That doesn’t seem very fair,” Sherlock mumbled, his hands roaming under the hem of John’s jumper.

“Didn’t say it was fair. I’m just making sure you understand who’s in charge.” John began tugging Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers.

“And who… “ the question was lost in a hiss as John reached under the fine silk of Sherlock’s shirt to graze a fingernail over a pebbled nipple.

“Who makes the rules?” John hovered over Sherlock’s mouth, breathing the words into his lover’s mouth.

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, his mouth open.

“We both do.” John whispered and with the utmost care, scraped his tongue against the tip of one of Sherlock’s fangs.

The hands at John’s back tightened as Sherlock groaned, pulling the shorter man tighter against him as he fought the urge to bite down, “John… don’t.”

“You won’t hurt me… “ John murmured before sucking Sherlock’s full lower lip into his mouth and biting down gently, “I trust you.” His tongue swept in and grazed Sherlock’s fang again, hard enough to draw blood.

“Stop… “ Sherlock’s voice was strained, his thighs trembling.

John drew back and leaned in close against Sherlock ear and repeated firmly, “You _won’t_ hurt me.”

There was a broken needy whine as Sherlock shifted restlessly beneath John, grinding his hips up and pressing his obvious erection against John’s arse, through trousers and jeans..

Pressing hot kisses down Sherlock’s neck, John nuzzled his nose deep in his Suprasternal notch and breathed deeply, mumbling “What do you want Sherlock?”

“Want to bite… “he answered brokenly, hips flexing, “need… to... “

“But you _won’t_ , will you?” John asked, peppering the skin visible at the neck of his shirt with firm, sucking pulls of his mouth.

“No… “ he replied weakly.

“Why?” John released one button, then two, kissing skin wherever it was exposed.

“Because I want you more… “ he growled, rutting against John as his hand moved to steady John against his lap.

John hummed in approval and lifted his head, eyes dark and drunk on the power he had over the amazing creature below him, “And that’s why you can have me. “ With a tilt of his head, he brought his exposed neck to Sherlock’s mouth and pressed, hard.

The points of Sherlock’s fangs breached John’s skin and Sherlock gave a broken cry around John’s skin, and bit down. The two men shuddered against each other, their twin orgasms ripping through them as they clutched desperately, holding each other in place as they shuddered and twitched together.

John became aware that Sherlock was gently licking at his neck. The tender strokes of his tongue salving the bite and numbing the skin as it healed the breach.

“You can’t do that, John.” He said, rough and slurred.

“I think I just proved that I can.” He chuckled against Sherlock’s check where his face was cradled.

“It’s reckless and dangerous. You place too much faith in me.” There was a note of regret to the words.

“I think I place just enough. Anyway, not sure if you’ve noticed… I may have a bit of a danger kink.” John sat up, smiling lazily at the satisfied vampire in the chair.

“I’ve noticed… “ Sherlock chuckled back, “Good thing I’m here to keep you safe.”

“Yeah,” John playfully ruffled his hair, “you never get us into trouble.”

Sherlock returned his gaze sheepishly, “Almost never.” He shifted on the chair and winced, “Shower?”

“Shower, and then,” he looked firmly at Sherlock, “I need to go out… and do… stuff.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Then go… report to your handler and come back to me, we have… things to do.”


	6. The accusation and the choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John runs his errand, and confronts a monster

“John,” Molly’s bright voice greeted him as she scanned the space behind him, “not trailing in Sherlock’s wake today?”

“No,” he closed the door of her cramped office behind him, “not today.”

The bubbly smile fell away and was replaced by something more appraising, “Reporting in?”

“Mmm, there’s a pretty significant update,” He rolled up his sleeve to expose the healing wounds there from the night he saved Sherlock in the alley.

“Christ, John! He bit you?” Her disapproval was clear as she inspected his wrist.

“Ah, yeah. There’s another one on my neck,” he added sheepishly.

She edged down his collar and hissed, “There’s two sets there! I hope you finally put him down?”

John blushed and took the seat next to her, “Not as such, no. They weren’t exactly,” he searched for the right word and settled on, “non-consensual.”

The the disapproving look tightened further, “Damn it, John! I knew we should have pulled you out. You’ve been hopelessly compromised for months.”

“He was DYING!” John stared at her unflinching.

“GOOD!” Molly shouted back furiously, “He’s a KILLER, John!”

“He’s NOT!” John crossed his arms, furious.

Molly sighed in frustration and pulled open the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet, grabbing a folder and slapping it down in front of him.

“Look at it!” She gestured toward it.

“I don’t need to,” belligerence clear in the tight line of his mouth.

“I think you do,” she flipped open the cover, “he’s been killing for years, John, right under your nose.”

John’s refusal to look held firm as Molly turned page after page inside the folder. He heard the pages and could see Molly’s fingers on the paper in his peripheral vision. Each leaf seemed to add more than its share of weight to the pile until he mumbled something hopelessly.

“What was that?” Her fingers stilled.

Angry, hopeless tears glittered at the edge of his eyes as he whispered, “It’s a matter of trust.”

**--**

“SHERLOCK!” John shouted as he thundered up the stairs of 221B.

“John?” Sherlock’s confused reply echoed from the bedroom.

“Get out here. Get out here now!” John stood square in the middle of the lounge, fingers gripped tight around the file.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway, hair damp and in nothing more than pyjamas and robe. He took several measured steps to halt in the kitchen, “What’s happened?”

John threw the folder down on the coffee table, momentum spilling several pages out and onto the floor, “That! That’s what happened. You prick, you insufferable, pathological lying prick!”

“I don’t understa…” Sherlock glanced at the sheets on the floor.

“You fucking MONSTER! You give me this bullshit fucking story about vampires being some kind of persecuted victims and all the time you’re out there wreaking fucking CARNAGE on the populace.

Sherlock took a single step forward and John held up a hand.

“Stay there, Sherlock, or so help me I will END you, I swear it.” John’s hand moved carefully to the gun at his waist.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the threat, “You could _try_ , hun… ,” he stalled the word on his lips, “… Doctor.”

John’s voice dropped to rumble dangerously, “Oh, I’ll do more than try, I promise you.”

The two men stared at each other, bristling and edgy until Sherlock’s eyes flicked again to the file on the table, “What’s that supposed to be?”

“Your kill list. Plump, wouldn’t you say?” John replied darkly.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as the look of menace began to drop away and was replaced by curiosity, gesturing slowly he asked, “May I?”

John’s hand eased away from his waist as his shoulders loosened marginally, “Go ahead, maybe it will bring back some memories,” he sneered.

As Sherlock knelt, keeping his hands visible and facing John, he retrieved the file and scattered pages. John remained standing uneasily, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s every move.

As the pages slowly turned, one by one, the pensive watchfulness in Sherlock’s bearing slipped away as the facts and data accumulated and captured his attention. The frequent glances to assess John’s mood became more sporadic and he settled more comfortably back on his heels, absorbed in the work in his hands.

John watched the shift, fighting his familiar awe at Sherlock being consumed by ‘the work’. The space around Sherlock seemed to quieten as his focus sharpened to the information in his hands and without saying a word, John quietly settled into Sherlock’s chair, silently surrendering to the fact that any planned _final showdown_ had been deferred, at least for now.

**--**

“John… tea.”

The voice seemed to come from a long way away and yet when John opened his eyes, Sherlock was crouched near his left elbow, a cup in his hand. With horror, John realised he’d fallen asleep in the presence of the vampire he’d very recently threatened to kill.

“How long…?” he mumbled, taking the cup from the supposed menace to society.

“A couple of hours. I’ve been reading.” He indicated the now closed file on the coffee table between them, “Are you willing to discuss it rationally?”

John shrugged in resignation. It seemed oddly unfair to stand on principle when Sherlock could have simply ended his life while he snored opposite him.

Sherlock lifted the cover of the file and removed a single sheet of paper, holding it out for John to take.

“What’s so important about this one?” John glanced down at the autopsy sheet of a seventeen year old girl. She’d been found near Scarborough in Northeast England. The details were specific enough to leave no doubt in John’s mind that this had been a vampire kill.

Sherlock sat silently, fingers steepled under his chin watching John as he went over the sheet again.

John checked the notes again, her name was Justine Miller and she’d been an unremarkable assistant to an equally unremarkable office manager, “Was she important to you in some way, Sherlock?”

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and John tried again.

Single child, lived alone… nothing odd there, had been killed while walking home from a work event one night. No witnesses…

“The date, John.” Sherlock said softly.

“13th May last year, I don’t see… wait.” John paused, thinking back.

“Go on… “

“We were in Baskerville in May. You… “ John checked the sheet again, confirming the information, “You can’t have done this, we were in Baskerville.”

Sherlock nodded, a small smile reaching his eyes, “Therefore…?”

John looked to Sherlock with hope, grasping at it like a desperate man for a life-raft, “If one is wrong… “ he trailed off.

“Let me make this absolutely clear, John, and then you need to make a choice,” Sherlock leaned forward, “These are NOT my kills. I haven’t killed a human for over twenty years.”

John tried to slow the erratic beating in his chest at the determined, hungry tone in Sherlock’s voice.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and the shine of fang tips appeared against his full lips, “But, I’d quite like to know who’s trying to make it seem like I have. Want to help me find out?”


	7. Sleep deprivation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock begin discussions regarding the case.

**2am**

Sherlock had the file sorted the way he wanted. To John’s increasingly bleary eyes, the last three versions had looked much the same as the previous five, however Sherlock assured him the new configuration indicated more of… something…

“I’ve GOT to get some sleep,” murmured John, “I’m heading up.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock hummed and made notes on one of the pages before pausing and looking up at where John was shuffling toward the door, “wait, what?”

“Me, bed, now,” John pointed at the stairs, “night.”

“Oh,” Sherlock’s eyes flicked briefly toward his own bedroom before his lips tightened, “of course. Night John.”

“What?” John leaned against the doorframe, exhaustion making him testy.

“I just thought,” he glanced to his room again, “never mind, sleep well, John.”

John followed the track of his gaze before shaking his head, “No, I don’t know why you’d think…no,” he said said more firmly.

“No, of course not,” Sherlock looked back down at the pages in his hands.

“It was one night, Sherlock. You said it yourself, loss of blood, exhaustion. There’s no reason… ” John rubbed idly at the fading mark on his wrist.

“Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’ll see you in the morning,” With a dismissive wave, Sherlock fell silent and with a frustrated grumble, John turned away to stalk up the stairs.

**--**

**3am**

The sound of saucepans clattering shook Sherlock from his analysis to find John pouring milk into a pot on the stove.

“John?”

“Can’t sleep. Overtired.” John muttered.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock rumbled thoughtfully, watching him shuffle about the room.

With a resonant sigh, John turned to stare at Sherlock where he sat on the floor surrounded by paper, “What?”

“Nothing… “

“No, don’t do that. You know something. Something you think I ought to have worked out for myself. I’m too tired for this, just _tell me!_ ”

“You won’t like it.”

“JUST TELL ME!”

“You’re suffering proximity anxiety.” Sherlock said flatly as if that should explain everything. When John continued to look blank he added, “Surely you know this, what do they _teach_ you in hunter training?”

“We’re not supposed to let you bite us, we’re supposed to kill you. Alright,” John sat heavily in his chair, “what’s proximity anxiety?”

Sherlock put down the page he’d been reading and gestured to the floor near him, “You should come here, it will help me explain.”

To tired to argue, John slipped off the chair the sit I front of Sherlock, their knees inches apart.

“John, there is a marker in vampire blood that binds willing donors to their feeder. It _encourages_ you to stay close and triggers adrenaline release if you stray too far.”

John looked appalled, “Why?”

“Why do you think? Because it’s convenient.”

“So… “ John rubbed at his wrist again, “I get panic attacks and you get… what… a portable snack bar?”

Sherlock smiled before realising that perhaps the thought of John as food was not good, “It’s not just you that’s impacted, I have an increasingly irrational need to keep you close.”

John’s gaze sharpened with interest, “How does that work?”

“There’s a… response, when a feeding is… “ Sherlock hesitated, “… satisfying. It triggers a desire to seek out the same donor. I was serious when I said to you that I refused to have this ruin us, John. Instinct was already in play, and the thought of losing you was… distasteful.”

Sherlock reached out gently touch John’s knee, “You should already been feeling the benefits of being closer again, calmness, a sense of security?”

John nodded, the odd restless itching under his skin had eased since returning to the lounge. However irritating the knowledge of this physical response was, it was at least comforting to understand the effects. John rolled his shoulders and drew his hand from between Sherlock’s, rising to stand. Without a word he offered his hand, “Alright.”

Sherlock looked at the offered palm, “I don’t… “

“I need sleep, and… because of you, I need you close, so c’mon, you’re coming to bed.”

Sherlock looked at the carefully arranged file, “But, I’m not tired.”

John shrugged, “Don’t care. Lay there and stare at the ceiling for all I care, up,” he waggled his fingers expectantly.

Sherlock nodded in surrender, looking up to smile wickedly at John where he stood over him, “Do I at least get a bed-time snack.”

Sherlock’s last remaining disappointment at having to leave the file was salved by the delightful blush that rose in John’s cheeks.

**--**

**9am**

“I’m gonna need iron tablets,” John’s words held no rancour.

Sherlock was resting, draped across John’s chest, leg sprawled between John’s, “Small price to pay. I’ll add spinach and pumpkin seeds to the shopping list… and dark chocolate.”

“Not sure they’ll go together,” John chuckled, “Sherlock, what do you want to do about that file.”

“I think we need to talk to Molly.”

John tensed and his breathing rate picked up at the sound of her name on Sherlock’s lips, “Why Molly?”

“I assume you got my file from your handler, ergo we need to talk to her.” Sherlock replied simply.

“How did you know?” John whispered.

Sherlock chuckled against John’s chest where his head was cradled, “Not that I particularly want to admit a mistake, but I’ve actually been operating under the illusion that she has been my hunter. Have thought so for years. It’s why it was such a surprise to find my _real_ hunter so much closer to home. Given she’s not my hunter, she must therefore be your handler. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“But…”

“Oh seriously, John, give me some credit. She might have well been dressed as Van Helsing and carrying a stake. Obvious.”

Sherlock eased away without haste and rose from the bed, “I’m far more interested in the contents of that file. The cases against me are almost perfect, if not for that misstep on the Baskerville date even I’d have been willing to consider me a killer.”

“How _did_ they make that mistake?” John slipped out the other side of the bed and stretched, padding toward the bathroom and continuing the conversation as he went.

“Mycroft’s doing, I suspect. He was never happy with our involvement, so he removed any evidence that we were there. Superficially, it’s entirely feasible that I could have been in Scarborough.”

John shouted over the sound of the shower as he stepped in, “But they had your DNA, that’s why you were tagged with the kills.”

Sherlock set the kettle on the hob, “I know, that’s why I want to talk to Molly. I need to run some tests on the samples.”

“And talk her out of killing you,” John entered the kitchen, towelling off his hair.

“That would be a fortunate benefit, yes.”

Sherlock pressed a cup and a slice of toast into John’s hand before heading into into the bathroom himself, “Five minutes John, then we’re out the door.”


	8. Getting to the heart of the matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's confrontation with Molly leads to reconcilliation and a new ally.

“Molly Hooper,” Sherlock’s silken voice at her shoulder sent a reflexive shudder though her small frame as the tray of samples slipped from her fingers.

“Careful,” His hand shot out and grabbed the tray as it passed her hip. She hadn’t seen him move and she knew, at that moment, her cover was blown utterly.

“Sherlock, leave her alone. Sorry Molly,” John’s voice wasn’t far behind.

 _Thank God_ , she thought, _I thought I was dead_. “John,” she added brightly, “wasn’t expecting you two.”

“Oh Molly,” Sherlock rumbled across the vowels and consonants, “please.”

“Alright,” she sighed, “clearly you know. Should I get my will out of the desk, or could you and John manage that afterward?”

Sherlock scowled, “I don’t understand why you think I hate you, Molly. I thought we were friends.”

“You _thought_ I was tracking you,” she sneered back.

“Touché, you knew I knew,” Sherlock’s troubled frown cleared to a small smile, “but I didn’t know you knew.” In a flash, the smile was gone again, “There’s always something.”

“But it’s over now, Sherlock. It’s all in the open, and it’s time. You must know that.”

“Molly…” John began.

“No John, I know you won’t be able to act, not with his saliva in your system. I just ask you not to intercede.” She stepped away from them both, edging toward the desk.

Sherlock chuckled, “Well, this has been _delightful_. The file’s a fake, Molly. They’re not my kills.” With a rustle of papers, Sherlock was between Molly and her desk. John glanced back to where he’d been, reassuring himself that there wasn’t two of him.

“Sherlock…” John took a step toward him, palm raised.

“Now… _Molly_ , we’re going to all take a seat and quietly discuss why someone is trying to frame me and expose vampires… and hunters for that matter… to the general populace.”

“They’re _what_?” she squeaked.

“Seat… sit… now,” Sherlock mentally pushed, just a little and Molly seemed to blink and move toward the chair as if on auto-pilot.

“Shit,” John’s muttered expletive drew Sherlock’s gaze and he looked chastised.

“OK, no forcing me… or MOLLY!” John hissed, “Or anyone else we know, for that matter. That stuff can do damage, Sher… Christ, how many times have you done this to our friends?”

Molly sat quietly in her seat, blinking at nothing.

“Not often,” Sherlock’s tone had changed. There was something apologetic in it in response to John’s judgement, “Anderson a bit, Donovan…” he looked entreatingly, “but they were being idiots!”

John tried not to smile, he tried hard, and yet something must have slipped through because Sherlock brightened and turned back to Molly, “Alright, since John says we have to do this the old fashioned way… Molly… “ And with a change in tone, she was back, alert but seemingly content to have somehow gotten to the chair.

“You’re an intelligent woman, Molly Hooper,” he shrugged, “Or at least what passes for intelligent, “and you’re a damned fine hunter although I hate to admit it. So we’re going to talk like rational creatures and then, if you don’t agree with my reasoning,” he glanced at John, “well, I suspect one of us will be going to die.”

**--**

The look on Molly’s face was equal parts relief and disgust. Having had all the facts and evidence lain out before her in typical Sherlock fashion, it was abundantly clear that there were holes in the evidence. Also clear was that the Hunter hierarchy had been completely taken in by the plausible facts at hand and hadn’t looked deeper.

“I’m waiting,” Sherlock said smoothly.

“You’ll be waiting until I’m in my grave and you’re prowling the next century,” Molly looked up at him, a sparkle in her eyes.

“Stubborn,” he murmured.

“With you… always,” she smiled.

John grinned at the restoration of something like normality between the two of them, “Alright, if you’ve finished what passes for flirting with you two…”

“John!” Sherlock and Molly exclaimed together, and then all three broke into an easy chuckle.

“This leaves the question of who… “ Molly began.

“… and why?” John added.  
“Oh, I think we know both of those,” Sherlock explained while Molly went to get the DNA samples from the cases.

“Do we?” John asked, bemused.

“Of course. Story of a clandestine sub-society of mysterious creatures, rampaging the countryside, preying on the innocent. A second society of highly trained humans, hunting them down for the good of the public, and yet a law unto themselves. The answer’s quite clear.”

John and Molly looked at each other and then to Sherlock, “Not to us, it’s not.”

“Story of the century, wouldn’t you say? Story like that…would make a career. Now who do we know… in the media… with a grudge against me in particular.”

Molly was still shaking her head when John blurted out, “Kitty Riley!”

Sherlock nodded, “Kitty Riley.” He stepped forward to take the tray of samples from Molly, “I just don’t know _how_?”


	9. Can't get you out of my head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a stand. It's a stupid stand, but it's still a stand

**2 am** **\- Monday**

 

John stumbled into Sherlock’s bedroom and flicked on the lights. As expected, Sherlock was sleeping, or what passed for vampire sleep. The urban legend of vampires sleeping during the day was yet another myth perpetuated by the vampires to help them ‘pass’ in human society. The truth was that most vampires didn’t sleep often, but when they did, they slept hard. Sherlock was no exception.

John stood in the doorway, deep, dark rings under his eyes and a deeply dissatisfied line to his mouth as he stared down at the irritatingly silent detective.

Stepping to the side of the bed, he shook the slumbering man’s shoulder gently and without result. Increasing the effort, it was only after he had hands on both shoulders and was physically lifting Sherlock’s torso from the mattress that the man stirred.

“What?” the pale eyes opened and focussed on John’s tired face, “Oh, John.”

“Yes,” John released him and Sherlock slumped back onto his pillows, “Oh… John.”

“Why are you awake? You went up hours ago,” Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows, “we have a busy day, I want you well rested.”

The corners of John’s mouth turned down yet further, and something dangerous flashed in his eyes, “Yes, thanks for that. And I _would_ be asleep if it wasn’t for this damned… what did you call it?”

“Proximity anxiety?”

“That.” John waved his hand toward the vampire, “I barely drop off, and I’m awake again having a bloody panic attack because… I don’t know… maybe because now my fucking _subconscious_ wonders if my bloody vampire might want a fucking bedtime snack!”

Sherlock grinned, trying to lighten the mood, as John stalked back and forth beside his bed, “I did suggest you sleep here.”

“I don’t WANT to sleep here,” John stopped his pacing and turned angrily, “I want to sleep in my own fucking bed. This is ridiculous, Sherlock, how long is this going to last, this… this… proximity anxiety?”

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully, “About two weeks, probably. Your entire blood volume needs to replace itself,” at John’s horrified look, he added, “sorry.”

“Two weeks! That’s unacceptable, Sherlock. I’m not putting up with this for two weeks!”

“Which is why I suggested you sleep here. If you stay close, it won’t be a prob—“

“Unless you feed on me again,” John cut in.

Sherlock’s gaze skittered away, “Well, yes. Obviously, if we have sex again, the clock resets.”

John placed his hands on his hips, “Which is why I’m not in your bed, Sherlock.”

His eyes flicked back up, and John was surprised at the shock and hurt he saw in them, “You think I wouldn’t respect your request to leave you alone?”

John felt the anger melt away at Sherlock’s tone and sighed, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, “No, Sherlock. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying,” John’s own gaze dropped before he straightened his shoulders and looked back up, admitting the truth, “I’m saying I don’t trust myself.”

Something complicated and unsure flashed in Sherlock’s eyes and was gone again, but not before John saw it.

“Look, Sherlock,” John reached to lay a hand on Sherlock’s leg where it was covered by the blankets, before seeming to rethink the action and instead came to rest just beside him, “you said it yourself, you don’t want this to change us…”

Sherlock nodded slowly, carefully keeping the distance between them.

“But it is, it already has, you have to see that?” John’s fingers inched toward Sherlock without conscious thought, until John frowned and moved them back again, “Whatever we say to ourselves, you have to admit that our hand was a bit… forced… on this?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and, finding nothing to dispute John’s words, closed it again with another sad nod.

“I let you feed on me, and… well, that started off a chain of events that I’m not sure either of us was expecting.”

“That’s not true, John. I’ve always wanted it, always,” Sherlock's voice was oddly small and fragile.

John’s eyes widened in the dim light, “Really?”

There was something utterly defeated in Sherlock’s nod as if he’d risked everything and only now knew he’d lost, “always.”

On a long breath out, John murmured, “Jesus,” before continuing with more assurance, “then that makes this even more important. I want this,” he gestured between them, “whatever this could be, to have a chance. A proper chance, without our bloody biologies dictating the terms.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with sudden, desperate hope.

“I want to come to you; ask for you without feeling like it isn’t me making the decision. Does that make sense?”

John had never seen a vampire cry, and now he knew why. The tears that were welling in Sherlock’s eyes were tinged with red and looked entirely inhuman.

“Yes,” Sherlock managed weakly, “yes, please.”

John watched as Sherlock, always so careful to hide any weakness fell to pieces in front of him; the droplets beginning a slow roll down his cheeks, leaving crimson trails behind them as Sherlock simply stared at John, his face stripped bare of all pretense, open and vulnerable.

“OK,” John said softly, with a decisive nod, “OK then. No more… _exchanging fluids_ for two weeks. Agreed?” In fact, John wanted nothing more than to take the stricken vampire in his arms and do whatever it took to ease his suffering. He could feel his subconscious screaming at him to do it.

Sherlock seemed suddenly to realize himself and brushed away the tears, clearing his throat thickly, “Agreed. It won’t be easy, you understand that?” He rubbed his fingertips together as if concentrating on the bloody fluid between them, but John knew his focus was entirely elsewhere.

“I understand,” John said, forcing bravado into his voice that he wasn’t sure he felt, “do _you_ understand that I’m doing this because I want you, not because I don’t?”

Sherlock looked up, his mouth turned up in a wry grin, and John found himself remembering how those lips felt under his.

“I may not like it, John, but yes, I understand it.”

Silence fell in the room, both men staring at each other and seeming to struggle as to the next logical step, given their resolution. Finally, John pushed himself to his feet and moved to the door, each step away from the bed more difficult than the last.

Still facing the door, John muttered tightly, “You say it won’t be easy. How hard will it get?”

Sherlock, a matching tightness in his own voice as he resisted the urge to prevent John from leaving hissed back, “Intolerable.”

 

**4 pm Friday**

John felt great. Well, apart from the irritating need to constantly monitor Sherlock’s location, mood, skin color, height, weight, eye color, socks, hair length. Everything, really, just… everything. There wasn’t a single moment of the day that John’s focus strayed from the brooding vampire. The niggling need to tend to him, care for him, _love_ him. The closest John could relate it to was a teenage infatuation he’d had with the captain of the school rugby team. And that was _never_ going to happen.

He felt like he was going to a particularly brutal detox and was through those first few lethargic days. His skin was clearer, his mind more alert. If not for the preoccupation with Sherlock, he’d swear off vampires for life.

And yet…

His eyes strayed yet again to the unmoving lump on the couch, better known as the greatest consulting mind in Britain. Sherlock was clearly feeling wretched. For the first couple of days, there was nothing more untoward than Sherlock’s usual declarations of _bored_ and a particularly violent temper tantrum resulting in the purchase of a new tea set.

But today, Sherlock had gone quiet. Not the common _thinking_ silence, this was an unhappy, sluggish silence that profoundly disturbed John. Sherlock was rarely normal, but this wasn’t normal, even for Sherlock.

Bringing yet another cup of tea, the last four remained untouched on the coffee table, John carefully lifted the vampire’s legs and settled himself on the sofa beside him.

“Sherlock, you should drink something,” John patted the motionless feet in a way he hoped was comforting.

After a guttural grunt, Sherlock rolled onto his back, and sleepy eyes opened to regard John at the other end of the couch.

“Yes, I suppose I’m going to have to, it can’t be helped,” his voice held all the distaste as if he’d announced he intended to snog Anderson.

John reached for the teacup, but Sherlock flinched back when it was offered to him, his eyes narrowing and shoulders tense.

Sherlock stared at the cup with hatred, lips pursed until he sighed and took it, cradling the fine china in his hands, leaving the liquid untouched.

“I’m going to have to go out, John. You can’t come,” his voice was flat but firm.

John looked the untouched liquid and suspected what was coming next, but the visceral feeling of dread that came with it surprised him, “Why?”

“I’m starving, John,” Sherlock looked up, tired eyes meeting his, full of despair, “I’m _literally_ starving. The aversion to tea, it’s hydrophobia. I need to feed, and I need to do it soon.”

The sudden erratic pounding in his chest came suddenly and brutally, and John found he couldn’t breathe. The room faded to gray and then white until he felt Sherlock’s strong arms around him, and his name being called from what seemed like far away.

“John… _John…_ ” Sherlock was gently tapping his cheeks, bringing him back to himself, “I’m sorry. Listen to me John, I’m _sorry,_ but I need to go. I know this hurts, but you asked me for this, you asked me not to feed on you. So I need to _go_ ,” Sherlock growled, the rumble resonating through John’s chest before he was pushed away, “I need to go now, or I won’t be able to make myself leave,”

And with that, Sherlock was gone, and for reasons that John vaguely understood but still found unbearable, he curled onto his side on the sofa, clutched at his cramping stomach, and sobbed.

 

**1 am Saturday morning**

Sherlock returned sometime after midnight. John wasn’t sure exactly when, as he hadn’t moved from his spot on the sofa. His eyes were gritty and his throat raw, and when Sherlock eased quietly, almost apologetically through the door, he lifted his head and hoped his eyes didn’t show the pathetic desperation that he felt deep in his bones.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock took one look at him and fell to his knees at John’s side, their faces close enough that Sherlock’s warm, almost human breath ghosted over him with the words.

“You…” John’s voice cracked, and he wondered when he’d turned into a Regency romance heroine, “you left.”

“I had to,” Sherlock whispered, brushing the drooping strands of hair back from John’s forehead.

“You… fed from someone else?” He hated the neediness in his voice, _hated it_.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, “No,” he said decisively “No, I wouldn’t do that to you,” he cocked his head thoughtfully, “actually, I’m not sure I _could_ do that to you right now. That’s interesting. No, I have suppliers; they… provide what I need. Think of it as a vampire blood bank if you like.”

John lifted his head, “You didn’t…” he trailed off, not quite knowing what he was trying to say and Sherlock smiled.

“No, John. I didn’t _cheat on you_. That’s what you’re feeling, you realize? You perceive me as yours, at least for the moment.” Sherlock stood, and reached out a hand, “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

John took the hand and let himself be pulled up, clinging pathetically to Sherlock’s lean frame and leaning close to nestle against the thick Belstaff coat, nuzzling in and smelling the vague musk and cigarette smell that never quite left the fabric.

“You said it would be difficult,” he murmured into the fabric.

“I did,” Sherlock circled a long arm around the small of John’s back, seemingly content to let him cling, “are you still determined to do this?”

“Yes,” John replied resolutely, “now more than ever. I was incapacitated, Sherlock. I actually couldn’t function with you gone. We can’t live like that, can we? Not if we’re going to find Kitty Riley.”

Sherlock huffed a frustrated sigh, “You’re too tired to argue with, right now. I’ve fed and should be fine for the next week, now. We’ll discuss the rest in the morning.

John looked toward the stairs with horror. The thought of being an entire floor away from Sherlock an insurmountable dread. He leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s chest in defeat and Sherlock’s hand came up to cradle the back of his skull comfortingly.

“Sleep on the couch, John,” he said softly, “your back won’t thank you for it, but I can sit in my chair and read. You’ll be OK, I promise.”

“Thank you,” his voice was tiny; yielding to the inevitable  Sherlock led him back and settled him amongst the cushions, laying his coat over the top of John’s blanket and not saying a word as the Doctor pulled it up, tucking it beneath his nose, where he could smell it.

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock. It’s for the best,” John murmured, surrounded by Sherlock’s scent and presence.

“It’s not, and you’re an idiot,” he muttered back, “but you're my idiot, so we’ll do it your way.”


End file.
